Uh-huh, Smoke thought. We’ll get along until I stick a .44 down his throat and doctor his innards with lead.
“Oh, I’m so excited!” Smoke cried. “May we proceed onward?”
“Son of a bitch shore talks funny!” Gridley grumbled.
Smoke had killed his first man back on the plains, back when he was fifteen or sixteen; he wasn’t quite sure. And he had killed many times since then. But as accustomed as he was to the sights of brutality, he had to struggle to keep his lunch down when they passed by a line of poles and platforms and wooden crosses sunk into the ground. Men and women in various stages of death and dying were nailed to the crosses; some were hung from chains by their ankles and left to rot; some had been horse-whipped until their flesh hung in strips, and they had been left to slowly die under the sun.
Smoke had never seen anything like it in his life. He did not have to force the gasp of horror that escaped from his lips. He turned his face away from the sight.
The outlaws thought it was funny, Hart saying, “That’s what happens to people who try to cross the boss, Shirley. Or to people who come in here pretendin’ to be something they ain’t.”
Gridley pointed to a woman, blackened in rotting death, hanging by chains. “She was a slave who tried to escape. Keep that in mind, sissy-boy.”
“How hideous!” Smoke found his voice. “What kind of place is this?”
“He really don’t know,” Nappy said with a laugh. “The silly sod really don’t know. Boy, are we gonna have some fun with this dude.”
“I don’t wish to stay here!” Smoke said, putting fear and panic in his voice. “This place is disgusting!” He tried to turn Drifter.
The outlaws escorting him boxed him in, none of them noticing the firm grip Smoke held on Drifter’s reins, steadying the killer horse, preventing him from rearing up and crushing a skull or breaking a back with his steel-shod hooves.
The bonnet had worked in disguising Drifter for what he really was. Worked, so far.
“You just hold on, fancy-pants,” Hart told him. “You wanted to come in here, remember?”
“But now I want to leave! I want to leave right this instant!”
“Sorry, sweets. You’re here to stay.”
Jim Wilde looked at the late afternoon sunlight outside his office window. He sighed and returned to his chair. “He ought to be in there by now. God have mercy on his soul; I guess I got to say it.”
“Yeah,” Sheriff Mike Larsen agreed. “He’s got more guts than I got, and I’ll stand out in the middle of the damn street and admit that.”
Jim sipped his coffee. “You told your boys not a word about this to anybody, right?”
“Damn well bet I did. I told ’em if they even thought hard on it, I’d catch the vibrations and lock ’em up.”
And the marshal knew the sheriff would do just that. Mike ran a good solid straight office in a tough town.
“You got the final tally sheet of all that’s goin’ in, Mike?”
“Yep. The boys is gearin’ up now. Quietly. Three sheriffs, including myself. Twenty regular deputies. Twenty volunteers—all of them top riders and good with short gun and rifle—and you and ten marshals.”
“The other marshals will be comin’ in by train two at a time, staring tomorrow at noon. They’re goin’ to stay low. I just wish we had some way of findin’ out how many hardcases we’re gonna be up against.”
“I think that’s impossible, Jim. But if I had to make a guess on it…I’d say two hundred at the low end. We all gonna tie a white handkerchief on our left arm so’s the Injuns won’t mistake us for outlaws…that is still the plan, ain’t it?”
“Yeah. Best I can come up with. I’ve already contracted for horses to be stashed along the way. So when we start ridin’, we ain’t gonna stop until it’s over and done with. One way or the other,” he added grimly.
Mike Larsen chose not to elaborate on that last bit. He would tell his wife only at the last moment, just before he stepped into the saddle. It was not a job he looked forward to doing, but he knew it was a job that had to be done. “Where you got the horses?”
“We’ll switch to fresh at Spanish Peaks, then again at La Veta Pass. The last stop will be at Red Davis’s place. I ain’t gonna kill no good horse on that final run. Most of that is gonna be uphill.”
Both men knew the fastest way to tire a horse was riding uphill.
“Red is givin’ us the best of his line and wanted to go in with us. I thanked him but told him no. Told him he was doin’ enough by loanin’ us fresh horses.”
“He’s a tough old man. But you was right in refusin’ him. You think he took offense?”
“No. He understands. White Wolf says he’ll have at least thirty braves around that town when Jensen opens the dance. And Jensen is goin’ to start the music as soon as White Wolf signals him that we’ve left the trail and entered the pass. White Wolf says the guards along the road will be taken care of. Them Utes ain’t got no use for anybody in Dead River. And I told the boys that volunteered that the reward money will be split up amongst ’em.”
“That’s good, but I don’t like Smoke openin’ the show by hisself.” Larsen frowned. “We’re gonna be a good forty-five minutes of hard ridin’ away from the town when he starts draggin’ iron and lettin’ it bang.”
“I know it. But he was by hisself when he met them ol’ boys up there on the Uncompahgre. And he killed ever’ damn one of them.”
“Yep,” the sheriff agreed. “He damn shore did that, didn’t he?”
“Unhand me, you beast!” Smoke shrilled his protest, struggling against the hands that held him in front of the saloon.
“My, my.” A man stepped out of the Bloody Bucket and onto the boardwalk. “What manner of creature do we have here, boys?”*
“It’s that sissy-boy that draws them pitchers, Mr. Davidson. The one that Cahoon told us about.”
“Where is my friend, Cahoon?” Smoke asked.
No one from the gathering crowd of thugs and hardcases replied.
“Well, well,” Davidson said with a smile, his eyes taking in Smoke’s outlandish dress. “So it is. And how do you like our little town, Mr. DeBeers?”
“I think it is appalling and disgusting and most offensive. And I do not like being manhandled by thugs. Tell your henchmen to unhand me this instant!”
Rex Davidson stepped from the boardwalk, faced Smoke and then backhanded him viciously across the face. He slapped him again. Smoke allowed his knees to buckle and he slumped to the ground, whimpering.
“You, silly boy,” Rex said, standing over Smoke, “do not give me orders. Around here, I give the orders, and you obey. I say who lives and dies, and who comes and goes. Do you understand that, Shirley?”
“Yes, sir,” Smoke gasped. The blows from Davidson had hurt. The man was no lightweight; he was big and muscled. Smoke decided to remain on the ground, on his hands and knees, until ordered to rise.
“Here, silly-boy,” Rex continued, “I am king. You are nothing. However, if I decide you may live—and that is a big if—I might elect to make you my court jester. Would you like that, silly-boy?”
“Yes, sir.” Until I shed this costume and put lead in you, you overbearing jackass!
King Rex kicked Smoke in the belly, knocking him flat on the ground. “When you address me, silly-boy, you will address me as Your Majesty. Now, say it, you foppish-looking fool!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” and Smoke knew it was going to take a miracle for him to last out the entire seven days. Maybe two or three miracles.
“That’s better, Jester. Some of you men get this fool on his feet and drag him inside the saloon. I wish to talk with him about doing my portrait.”
Smoke started to tell him that he didn’t do portraits, then decided it would be best if he’d just keep his mouth shut for the moment. He let the hardcases drag him to his feet and shove him up the steps, onto the boardwalk, and through the batwings. And it was all done with a lot of unnecess
ary roughness and very crude language.
What the hell did you expect, Jensen? Smoke silently questioned. A tea party?
The saloon—and from what Smoke had been able to glean, the only one in town—was a huge affair, capable of seating several hundred people. There was a large stage on one end of the building. The stage had red velvet curtains. Smoke wondered who did the acting and singing.
He was shoved roughly into a chair and then, looking up, got his first good look at Rex Davidson.
The man was a handsome rascal, no doubt about that. And a big man, in his mid-forties, Smoke guessed, solid, with heavily muscled arms and shoulders, thick wrists. Big hands. His eyes were cruel but not tinged with any sign of madness that Smoke could readily detect.
Rex leaned against the polished bar and smiled at Smoke; but the smile did not reach the man’s eyes. “Talk to me, Jester.”
“About what, Your Majesty?” Smoke promptly responded as instructed.
“Good, good!” Rex shouted to the hardcases gathered in the saloon. “You all see how quickly he learns? I think this one will do just fine. Oh, my, yes. Where are you from, Jester?”
“I am originally from Pennsylvania, Your Majesty.”
“What city?”
“I am not from a city, Your Majesty.”
“Oh? You certainly don’t speak like a hick.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” You royal pain in the ass! “I was born on a small farm. Both my mother and father were highly educated people. They taught us at home.” And I’m going to teach you a thing or two, King Jackass! “There were no schools nearby.”
“Thank you, Jester. And where did you learn to draw, Jester?”
“I suppose I was born with the talent, Your Majesty.” Just like I was born good with a gun, which you shall certainly get the chance to see…briefly. “My brother, Maurice, has the ability to write quite eloquently.”
“Ah, yes, Maurice. Did you tell Cahoon that this Maurice person had stopped by here?”
“That is what he wrote and told me. But I have no way of knowing if he did stop or not. Maurice, ah, tends to story a bit.”
“I see. In other words, he’s nothing more than a goddamned liar?”
“Ah, yes, Your Majesty.”
“Where is he now, Jester?”
“I have no idea, Your Majesty.”
“I see. Does he look like you, Jester?”
“No, Your Majesty. Maurice was adopted, you see. While my hair is—”
Rex waved him silent as a man carrying a tray of drinks stumbled and went crashing to the floor. The glasses shattered and the smell of raw whiskey and beer filled the huge room.
“Incompetent fool!” Rex yelled at the fallen man.
“I’m sorry, sir. It was an accident.”
“Your services will no longer be needed here, idiot.”
The man tried to crawl to his feet just as Rex pulled out a .44. “I cannot tolerate clumsiness.” He eased back the hammer and shot the man in the chest, knocking him back to the floor. The man began screaming in pain. Rex calmly shot him in the head. The screaming stopped.
Smoke watched it all, then remembered to put a shocked look on his face. Just in time, for Rex had cut his eyes and was watching Smoke carefully.
“Oh, my goodness!” Smoke gasped, putting a hand over his mouth. “That poor fellow.”
“Drag him out of here and sprinkle some sawdust over the blood spots,” Rex ordered. He punched out the empty brass in the cylinder and replaced the spent cartridges, then cut his eyes to Smoke. “Life is the cheapest commodity on the market around here, Jester. Bear that in mind at all times. Now then, how long were you planning on staying in my town?”
“My original plans were to spend about a week, sketching the scenery, which I was told was lovely. Then I was going to resupply and move on.”
“A week, hey?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Give me all your money.”
“Sir?”
King Rex slapped Smoke out of the chair. And as he hit the floor, Smoke was really beginning to question his own sanity for getting himself into this snakepit. And wondering if he were going to get out of it alive.
Smoke was jerked up from the floor and slammed into his chair. The side of his face ached and he tasted blood in his mouth. And if Rex, king of Dead River, could just read Smoke’s thoughts…
“Never, never question me, Jester,” Rex told him. “You will obey instantly, or you will die. Very slowly and very painfully. Do you understand me, Jester?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Just don’t hurt me. I can’t stand pain. It makes me ill.”
“Stop your goddamned babblings, you fool. Give me your money!”
Smoke dug in his trousers and handed the man his slim roll of greenbacks.
Rex counted the money. “Sixty dollars. I charge ten dollars a day to stay here, Jester, unless you work for me, which you don’t. What are you going to do at the end of six days, Jester?”
A woman began screaming from one of the rooms upstairs. Then the sounds of a whip striking flesh overrode the screaming. A man’s ugly laughter followed the sounds of the lashing.
“A slave being punished, Jester,” Rex told him. “We have many slaves in this town. Some live a long, long time. Others last only a few weeks. How long do you think you would last, Jester?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”
“An honest answer. Now answer my original question, Jester.”
“Well, I suppose after my six days are up, I’ll just leave, sir.” After I kill you, Davidson.
From the depths of the crowd, a man laughed, and it was not a very nice laugh. Smoke looked around him; all the hardcases were grinning at him.
“So you think you’ll leave, hey, Jester?” Davidson smiled at him.
“Yes, sir. I hope to do that.”
“Well, we’ll see. If you behave yourself, I’ll let you leave.”
Sure you will, Smoke thought. Right. And Drifter is going to suddenly start reciting poetry at any moment.
Davidson shook the greenbacks at Smoke. “This money only allows you to stay in this protected town. You pay for your own food and lodgings. You may leave now, Jester.”
Smoke stood up.
“Welcome to Dead River, Mr. DeBeers,” Rex said with a smile.
Smoke began walking toward the batwings, half expecting to get a bullet in his back. But it was a pleasant surprise when none came. He pushed open the batwings and stepped out onto the boardwalk. He mounted up, packhorse rope in his hand, and swung Drifter’s bonneted head toward the far end of town, away from the sights and sounds and smells of the dead and slowly dying men and women at the other end of the town. He got the impression that hell must be very much like what he had witnessed coming in.
One thing for sure, he knew he would never forget that sight as long as he lived. He didn’t have to sketch it to remember it; it was burned into his brain.
He wondered what had finally happened to that slave woman he had heard being beaten back at the Bloody Bucket. He thought he knew.
How in the name of God could a place like this have existed for so long, without somebody escaping and telling the horrors that were going on?
He had no answers for that question either.
But he knew that this place must be destroyed. And he also knew that when Marshal Jim Wilde and Sheriff Larsen and the posse members saw this chamber of horrors, there would never be any due process of law. No courts with judge and jury would decide the fate of the outlaws of Dead River. It would be decided on the seventh night, with gunsmoke and lead.
If the posse could help it, no outlaw would leave this valley alive.
Smoke pushed those thoughts out of his mind and concentrated on his own predicament: He did not have a cent to his name and had very few supplies left. Maybe enough to last a couple of days, if he was careful.
Smoke Jensen, the most famous and feared gunfighter in all the West, didn’t know what in the
hell he was going to do.
10
“So that’s it.” Sally’s father’s voice was filled with ill-disguised disgust. “What a wretched excuse for a human being.”
Abigal’s face mirrored her shock and horror.
Sally sat with her mother and father in the book-lined study of the mansion. Her father’s room, which few of them had dared enter when they were children. But Sally had never been afraid of doing so. She used to love to sit in her father’s chair and look at all the books about law and justice.
The three of them were alone; her brothers and sisters had left for the evening. And the town was fairly buzzing about the news of the famous gunfighter who was soon to be arriving.
“Why didn’t you tell us when it happened, dear?” her mother asked.
“Because he told me he would kill you both. Then, after he left town, after killing that man, I just did my best to put the incident out of my mind, as much as possible. As the years went by, the memory became dimmer and dimmer. But there is no doubt in my mind that Dagget is the same man who tried to molest me years ago.”
John rose from his chair to pace the room, his anger very evident. Wife and daughter watched him until he composed himself and returned to his leather chair. “The first thing in the morning, I shall inform the authorities as to this scoundrel’s whereabouts. Then we shall begin extradition proceedings to have him returned to New Hampshire to stand trial.”
Sally could not contain the smile that curved her lips. “Father, by the time you do all that legal mumbojumbo, the matter will most probably be taken care of—if it isn’t already tended to. However, Smoke did suggest he cut off Dagget’s head and bring it back here in a sack.”
Abigal turned a bit green around the mouth and began fanning herself. “For heaven’s sake!” she finally blurted. “He was joking, of course?”
“Oh, no, Mother. He wasn’t joking a bit.”
“Just exactly what is your husband doing while you are visiting here, Sally?” John asked.
Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man) Page 32